


The Tale As Old As Time

by martial_quill



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Fem!Aragorn, Gen, Genderbending, M!Arwen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-05-27 08:52:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15021053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martial_quill/pseuds/martial_quill
Summary: The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen changes in surprising ways when you flip the genders of those involved.Or, the one where Berenís really is too smart for this, but the silver-haired Elf in front of her is infuriatingly attractive all the same.





	1. First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> And here I swore I wasn't writing another fic. Oh well.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their first meeting isn't as fairytale-like as you'd think.

 

Berenís rose from the fire she was tending. Someone approached, she knew, even though she could hear no footsteps. An Elf, then. No surprise, this close to the borders of Imladris.

She continued humming under her breath even though she ran through a mental checklist. She had ridden through the fences she had once patrolled, greeting her former patrol mates but not staying, eager to be home with her foster family for Mettarë. Her brothers had ridden ahead while she wrapped things up…

Perhaps it was Legolas?

“ _Mae g’ovannen_ , _mellon_!” she called. “Will you come forward?”

She had to force herself not to flinch as an Elf dropped from the tree. A Sinda, then.

The newcomer was studying her, and she was busy trying to hide her surprise. He looked like, for all the world, the portraits of Elu Thingol himself come to life. Tall, taller than her, at least a foot taller than her. He was, even by Elven standards, extraordinarily beautiful. Somewhat more broad-shouldered and muscled than most, in a way that seemed strangely familiar, with bright green eyes, olive skin, a strong jaw and bow-shaped lips. But his silver-grey hair was braided in a rope that fell to the small of his back, and while he wore a bow and quiver, he also wore a sword in the Lothlórien style on his hip.

“Mae g’ovannen,” the newcomer replied. His eyes were keen and bright, with an edge of sadness to them. Berenis’ breath caught in her throat.

Oh, no. Bad idea. _Incredibly_ bad idea.

“Will you come and sup with me, friend?” she asked. “I have enough rabbit here to share.”

Another bad idea, considering how attractive she found him, and how bad it would be for the future Chieftain of the Dúnedain to be distracted in such a way. But hospitality was what it was, and she could just _imagine_ Naneth’s lecture if she found out that Berenís had _ever_ shirked her obligations as a host, or even tried to circumvent them. _Ai, ai! Have I not raised you better, lach nin?_

A light kindled in the Elf’s eyes. Something that reminded her of the way her brothers had looked, when she developed her first spot as a thirteen year old. Curiosity, perhaps.

“Thank you, friend,” he said. “I am honoured to accept your kind invitation.”

She chuckled, waving him into the camp. “Come, sit by the fire.” She leans over the pot of stew, giving it a stir. “What is your name?”

A hesitation from the Elf. “You may call me Celedir.”

 _Silver man?_ Not impossible. Elven names based on the appearance were hardly unknown. But her instincts, honed from the past nine months of dealing with cagey innkeepers, skeptical Dúnedenith and even more skeptical Rangers, twitch at the phraseology.

_Adar would surely not let any Elf into the valley who intended harm. But the words are so_ _…_ _precise._

“Good evening, Celedir,” she said. _Can’t let him think I haven’t noticed, though._ “If we’re using aliases, then you may call me Estel,” she continued.

His teeth flashed in a dazzling smile, and Berenís felt her heart skip a beat.

 _An Elf,_ she reminded herself frantically. _Do you not remember swearing to be more sensible than your namesake when you were a child? An Elf. Not just any Elf, but one who refuses to give you his full name._

She can almost hear what Halbarad would be saying. _Have you lost what little was left of your mind in a cave somewhere, Beren?_

“Elen sila lumenn’ omentielvo, Estel,” the newcomer said. _Quenya? How odd. I thought him a Sinda for sure._ He whistled, and Berenís heard a rustle in the woods. Despite being almost certain it was his horse that he was summoning, she had to work very hard to keep her hand from drifting to her sword.

“And what brings you to Imladris?”

Not the dazzling smile this time. Just a quick twist of the lips, more of a smirk than anything else, there and gone. It seemed familiar. It was also unfortunately mesmerising, as seemingly everything the thrice-damned ellon did. He turned to unload the saddlebag attached to his horse’s belly band.

“I have come to see absent friends and kin, whom I have missed greatly,” he said.

“I, too,” Berenís said, stirring the pot again. She breathed in its scent. Yes, it was almost done.

“Your family lives within the Valley?” the Elf looked intrigued. “Do I know them?”

 _Yes, and no._ Of course it was ludicrous to think that any Elf wouldn’t know of Elrond Peredhel Eärendilion and his twin sons, Elladan and Elrohir. On the other hand, it would be nice to be anonymous a little while longer, especially since she had no doubt that Celedir had the same intention.

But the truth would come out the second he told someone else of his encounter with her. It was inevitable.

She sighed, and swept him an ironic bow.

“I am a fosterling, raised by Lord Elrond. I consider his family mine.”

Best not to mention the _Berenís, daughter of Arathorn_ bit.

Green eyes were wide and gleaming in the firelight, as the ellon leaned closer. “A star shines, indeed, Estel,” he said, and wouldn’t you know it, but there was actually _surprise_ in the ellon’s voice. Not easy to induce, by any means. “Is the Lord well?”

Damn him to the Void three times over, but his features were no less gorgeous for having lost some of their serenity.

Berenis pounced. “He was very well, last I saw him, Celedir. But whence your interest?”

The mask of serenity returned. “The Lady Galadriel takes a keen interest in her law-son’s welfare.” The words came smoothly and easily, a cordial smile fixed in place.

She stifled a sigh. Back to charming, then.

“Your sword is an interesting style,” she said, and the mask cracks again, slowly fragmenting into a smirk.

She couldn’t really tell you how they came to be arguing over the merits of sword-styles, but there were worse people to have as a companion and a sparring partner on the way home. She made him work for his victory, though. Glorfindel had been teaching her wrestling since she was old enough to form a tiny fist, to hear her mother tell it, but whoever taught _this_ one…well. If he was any standard, the Elves of Lórien were much more skilled than the Elves of Mirkwood liked to indicate.

“Well played, Celedir,” she said, extending her hand. He grinned back, pulling her up off the forest floor. If it took any effort on his part, it didn’t show.

“You too,” he said. “I’m impressed.”

Berenís smirked. “You say that like you’re _surprised_ , Celedir.”

He chuckled. The sound was beautiful and wild, like the unrestrained laugh of a river. Berenís couldn’t stop herself from giggling, either.

“Will you sleep here tonight?”

She tried to keep her voice casual. She’d shared her campsite with people before. It simply wasn’t a big deal.

He shook his head. “I’ll press on. I’m eager to see everyone. It has been a long time since I could come from Lothlórien.”

She squashed the disappointment that rose at those words. _This is a good thing, this is a good thing_ , she told herself.

“I’ll see you in the Valley, then,” she said, as she doused the fire.

He bowed. “Until we meet again.”

She heard him singing as he retreated. _The Lay of Lúthien._ A common choice. And – because Vairë was not done laughing with her for the evening – he had a fantastic voice, even by Elven standards.

_Of. Course._

She unrolled the bedroll, and tried to clear her mind of Celedir’s face – _it’s not even his name, Berenís! –_ before she slept.

She was not successful, but she did sleep.

The late dawn of winter woke her, weak sunlight warming her face. She whistled for her horse. He was a lovely roan stallion that she’d named Minuial, when she’d gone among her father’s herd to be chosen by her first horse. He nuzzled her, and she laughed as she slipped the bit into his mouth. “It seems that we’re both reminiscing today, my friend.”

She was hungry, again. No surprises, there; but if she rode well, and cut through the water meadows, she could be in the Last Homely House in a few hours.

She stroked Minuial’s withers. “What do you say? Do you fancy being there in time for lunch?”

He snorted, and they fell into a rapid trot. They ran across some old playmates of hers, Cyratan and Gilthalion, the last Elflings in Imladris, who were moving through the trees.

Cyratan held his finger to his lips, and Berenís raised an eyebrow.

 _Surprise_ , he mouthed at her.

Ah. So Cyratan and Gilthalion were stalking Glorfindel. No surprise, there. Every warrior had to do it before they graduated their warrior’s training, even though nobody had won against him yet. Berenis had had to do it five years ago, when she began to ride the fences of outer Imladris.

She grinned back at the Elflings. _Good fortune,_ she mouthed back, and set Minuial to a trot again.

 

Simpler times, those had been. Times when she was simply the fosterling of the house. ‘Estel nin’ to her brothers, Elladan and Elrohir. ‘ _Iel nin_ ’ to Elrond, always. She couldn’t remember the first time he’d called her that. But it had hardly been an occasional term of address. Always, she had been ‘ _iel nin_ ’ to Elrond. When she was sick, it had been accompanied by a worried frown; whilst other Elves occasionally forgot the frailties of a _fíriel_ , her Ada never would. On the day that she, at the age of fourteen, had burst into his study convinced that she was dying, that frown of worry had melted to restrained amusement, and a hint of sadness in his eyes. Only looking back at the memory did she see the sadness for what it was. Another of his children was growing up, and he would have to let her go. There had been the same sadness in his eyes when he told her of her identity, when she was sixteen. And a strange day _that_ had been.

“Must I – should I–” the words had stumbled from her mouth before she could even untangle the thought. “…Was it wrong for me to call you my _Ada_?”

Ada’s eyes – _Elrond’s_ eyes – had softened, even as he glanced away. “How do you know that it was you who called me ‘Ada’, and not I who called you ‘ _iel’_?”

“I know,” she’d said, with a shrug. “And you’re dodging the question.”

He shook his head. “You know, I remember a time when you would have been tangled in that question for ten minutes.”

She’d frowned at him, hoping it looked like the austere frown Legolas used on a noble that was too powerful for her to simply steamroll over, but that she still thought was an utter nitwit. “Watching Legolas and her sisters cut through Mirkwood politics has that effect. And you are _still_ dodging.”

Ada had let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Then all I can say is that Arathorn was a kind, generous and courageous man. Spite and jealousy had very little in him. Some of the Dúnedain might have called it disrespectful to his memory. But Arathorn? No, not that man.” He glanced at her, his eyes as perceptive as they usually were. “That’s what you were worrying about, wasn’t it?”

She nodded, unable to stop a wry smile flicking across her mouth. It was always so damned difficult to hide _anything_ from Ada.

He opened his arms. “Come here.”

She’d walked into his hug, and hadn’t minded a bit. “You will _always_ be my daughter, always be my Estel,” he whispered. “And if anyone wants to dispute it, Hadhafang may well find itself taken down from the walls of the armoury.”

It was no laughing threat, from the man who had served as Gil-galad’s herald. And that, she’d found very reassuring.

 

 _Estel_ , the optimistic, fearless flame of a child had been left behind in Imladris. Berenís needed to take her place. Clever enough to outwit a pack of hostile recruits who resented the interloper, or viewed her as easy game; cunning enough to evade some of the machinations of the less scrupulous of her people; strong enough to prove herself a more than capable warrior; wise enough to calm the inevitable storms. In short, everything that the Dúnedain thought a future Chieftain should be.

And now, Berenís had to return to Imladris, and she wasn’t sure if she could do it. Things could never be the same, after all.

Unbidden, Celedir’s face came to mind and she let out her breath in an exasperated sigh.

“ _That_ sigh sounds like it had either the weight of the world on it, or a boy,” said a dry voice. “ _Mae g’ovannen_ , _lach nin_.”

Berenis couldn’t hold back her smile at the epessë only one person in the world would _ever_ use.

“ _Nana!”_ She slipped her feet from the stirrups and dismounted, wrapping her mother in a bear hug. Gilraen the Fair had soft grey eyes, dark brown hair, and a heart-shaped face that Berenis had inherited.

“Hello to you too,” her mother said. “It’s good to see you in one piece.”

She grinned into her mother’s shoulder. “How long have you been out here?”

“Not long,” Gilraen said, one of her hands coming up to smooth Berenis’ hair. “I had a feeling you’d be out here today.”

Berenis groaned. Gilraen’s ‘feelings’, whilst the woman didn’t call them foresight, were quite accurate. Correct three times out of four, most of the time. Gilraen chuckled.

“Come on. Someone your Ada has been waiting to see for a long, long time came home last night.”

Berenis’ eyebrows rose. “I would have thought ‘Dan and ‘Ro would have gotten back before now.”

“They did. I’m not talking about them.”

Berenis’ eyes narrowed. “You’re not going to tell me anymore, are you.”

Gilraen shook her head, smiling. “It’s a –”

“Surprise. Of course it is.” Berenis cracked the muscles in her neck. “Well, let me give you a boost on Minuial and we’ll be on our way to the _surprise_.”

Gilraen’s grin widened. “I’m glad you’re back, _lach nin_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Height references: I picture Berenís as being about six feet two. So, very tall for a woman, but still quite a bit shorter than a lot of the Elves and some of the Dúnedain.
> 
> I thought it would be a nice touch if m!Arwen really took after Thingol and the Sindar the way Arwen took after Lúthien, especially since Lúthien seems to have stamped her mark all over Gondor, the Dúnedain, and over Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir.
> 
> Yes, Legolas is a girl here, too. Mostly because I just felt like it.
> 
> Mae g'ovannen, mellon! = Hello, friend!
> 
> Lach nin = My flame
> 
> Dúnedenith = Female Dúnedain
> 
> Epessë = a gifted name, a nickname
> 
> Quenya: Elen sila lumenn’ omentielvo = A star shines upon the hour of our meeting.
> 
> Maegcrist: Sharp-sword
> 
> Berenís = Bold (Beren, Sindarin) and woman (nís, Quenya.)
> 
> Iel nin = my daughter
> 
> fíriel = mortal daughter, mortal woman
> 
> Ada = Dad, Daddy
> 
> Nana = Mum, Mummy


	2. Clearing the Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eärendilion family drama.

The moon was setting, and some of the more nocturnal Elves were still singing, albeit softly. A lullaby that Lindir had composed a few years before.

Elrond had had a very long night. A cheerful Bilbo Baggins had been pleading with him to read his poetry, with all the persistence one expects from a Took; a dispatch rider from Mirkwood had come with an invitation to a trading summit; and there had been difficulties in preparing for the Mettarë feast which had required his _personal_ intervention. He had dodged out of the Hall of Fire before he could be waylaid by any more exasperating events, and now was walking the path of dreams.

However, he was still the Elf who had served as the Herald of Gil-Galad. So when something rustled in his window, and booted feet hit the floor, it may have been unsurprising that his reflexive response was to go for the dagger under his pillow and lunge.

The other Elf blurred away from his attack, and called the three words capable of stopping Elrond.

“Stop! It’s _me!”_

Elrond froze.

“…Celethalion?” he whispered.

An olive-toned hand knocked back the hood, revealing his son’s face.

Elrond didn’t move. It was doubtful whether he _could_ move, even if Thorin Oakenshield’s Company was re-formed and charging through the halls of the Last Homely House at that very instant.

It was his _son_ standing there in front of him.

He’d changed more than the dispatches indicated. The hair was braided instead of worn loose, as he’d once preferred it, and the restlessness that used to mark his son’s every movement was gone. Now he was still, like a coiled spring. His grandfather’s influence, no doubt, Elrond knew, and tried to ignore the wave of jealousy that thought provoked. Celeborn had always been very close to his grandsons, which was right, and proper, but... 

Celethalion swallowed. “I’m sorry to wake you,” he said, and the spell broke. Elrond became aware of the situation at hand.

 _Easy,_ he could almost hear what Elros would say about the situation. _He’s been gone a long time. Do not overwhelm him._

“I will admit that the method of entry could use some work,” he offered, and Celethalion winced. _Damn. That didn’t work._ Either Elladan or Elrohir would have chuckled at it, the irony amusing them, but Celethalion had always been a touch…different. It had started when he was an adolescent Elf. Celebrían had usually been able to mediate between them.

Celebrían was gone now, and his son stood there, looking so like her. The same forest green eyes, shining silver hair that both were named for, Varda, even the same _nose_. So very, _very_ alike.

Elrond suppressed his sigh, setting the dagger on the bedside table. Centuries later, and still…

“Why did you come now?” he asked. “And why did you not write?”

The chin lifted, and Celethalion’s green eyes were steady now.

“I did not think you would want to hear from me.”

Blood roared in Elrond’s ears.

“What?” he asked. His tone was level and calm. He was sure of it. He had been able to keep a bland, expressionless tone throughout countless diplomatic meetings, and the skill would not fail him now.

Judging by the flare of anger in Celethalion’s eyes, that had not been the right thing to say to calm the situation.

“I said,” Celethalion repeated, “I did not think that you would want to hear from me.”

“You are my _child_ ,” Elrond said, his spirit flaring with matching anger. Anger that had been long coiled, contained, bottled. “Why would I wish to not hear from you?”

Celethalion shook his head. “We have never been like Elladan or Elrohir.”

“Possibly because you _left_ ,” Elrond snapped, immediately regretting it. It had not been wise to say that. But it had torn him so very deeply, that he had lost his wife, and then all three of his sons: Elladan and Elrohir, to their vengeance, still so newly restored, and Celethalion, to Lothlórien.

“How could I stay?” Celethalion’s voice cracked like a whip. “You couldn’t even look at me after Nana sailed! That’s how much you hated me!”

“ _I never hated you!”_

Elrond’s roar echoed through the room, and through the corridors. The night song of the Valley stilled for a moment, before it resumed, but softer. The residents feared for their Lord.

Celethalion’s eyes were wide, now, and Elrond remembered when the child was still an Elfling, when he was small enough to be held in Elrond’s arms against his chest, soothed by the sound of his heartbeat, staring up at his father in wonder.

Elrond shook his head, tears pricking at his eyes.

“You – I held you as a baby. I sang you lullabies. Patched and kissed every skinned knee, set every sprained ankle. I _love_ you, child. How do you doubt that?”

“You couldn’t look at me,” Celethalion repeated, his voice trembling.

Elrond swallowed.

“After – after. You look so like her. And all I could imagine was if you hadn’t obeyed her order – to shadow them – all I could see when I looked at you was _both_ of you captured. _Fae_ torn to shreds and _rhaw_ brutalised beyond all skill at healing. I – part of me was _grateful_. I had lost my wife. But I still had my sons. Her most beautiful legacy.” Elrond glanced at the floor as the tears fell. “And then you left.”

_So much for not overwhelming him._

Celethalion rocked back onto his heels. “I–”

Elrond held up a hand. “You’re here now. Why?”

Celethalion sighed. “I thought – I thought now was the time. To clear the air. But I got more than I bargained for, as the Rohirrim say.”

Elrond nodded, feeling a sad smile twist the corner of his mouth. “I suppose you did.”

Tentatively, he opened his arms.

Celethalion walked into them, his steps equally hesitant, resting his head on Elrond’s shoulder. And Elrond said nothing – nothing at all – as his son’s muscles relaxed, until his shoulders began to shake. Continued to say nothing, as his shoulder became damp with his son’s tears.

Nothing, until the door swung open.

“Well, _finally_ ,” Elladan commented.

Elrohir smiled. “Welcome home, ‘Thalion.”

“Don’t call me that,” Celethalion said.

Elrohir and Elladan exchanged long looks, comprehension and then determination flashing across their faces before they wore matching innocent expressions. “What else should we call you? It’s your _name_ ,” Elladan said.

“I have to agree with them on this, _ion nin,_ ” Elrond said.

“Hero. I was misnamed. I’ve been going by Celedir instead,” Celethalion said, shaking his head, retreating from Elrond’s hug. “A _real_ hero would have been able to –”

Elladan shook his head. “No. Listen to me. You made the right decision.”

“But if I’d been–”

“You were alone, you needed help, and Nana needed to be found. And without you there to guide us, we would not have been able to find her,” Elladan said, grey eyes sober. “You are _strong_. But there was nothing, _nothing_ more that you could have done. Let it _go_.”

“If you’d done anything else, you wouldn’t have saved her. It would have been suicide,” Elrohir said. “And we would mourn twice over – for our mother, and our brother.”

Celethalion was wavering.

“I know how you got wounded, you know,” Elrond heard himself saying. “You put yourself between her and the first knife. She told me, after.” He locked eyes with his son. “She didn’t have Galadriel’s sight, but no Elven mother names her child idly. Your name was the very first gift she gave you. Will you cast that aside?”

Celethalion threw his hands up. “You haven’t changed a bit, _Ada,"_ he said, pure exasperation in his voice. Elladan smiled, while Elrohir hid his lopsided grin behind his hand. But Elrond blinked back fresh tears. It had been _such_ a long time, since Celethalion had called him that.

“Well, that’s settled,” Elladan said. “And now, I think that we should sleep.”

Moving as one, the twins walked over to Elrond’s bed and climbed in, as if they were still twenty-three and having nightmares about giant spiders. Celethalion smirked a watery smirk, and climbed in behind Elrohir.

“Am I no longer permitted to sleep in my own bed?” Elrond asked, his words arch, even while his voice trembled.

“There’s room,” Elladan said, his eyes already closing.

“Come on, Ada,” Celethalion said, and if his eyes seemed a little wet, even while his voice was teasing–

That probably made it an even better idea to go along with it, Elrond thought, as he climbed onto the bed and rolled onto his side. He listened to the sound of his sons breathing until he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Celedir means silver man, and Celethalion means 'silver hero.'


End file.
